With the Tide
by It's-A-Passion
Summary: "You think you're tough," he growled out, low and rough, his lips a half-smirk. The innocence on her face would not do her any favours in a place like this, walking around men like them—in fact, places like this and men like them slowly pulled girls like her apart, bit by bit, before tainting the bits that were left. [VaneOC].


**Thanks for clicking on** _ **With the Tide**_ **! I hope you enjoy it :)**

 _With the Tide_

 **Chapter One** | Nassau, September, 1713

When Mary-Jane inquired about a job in Nassau's local tavern of choice, she had been hired and immediately put to work. They seemed to be in short supply of barmaids as none of them lasted more than a day or two.

She quickly discovered the reason for that—not even an hour in and her ass had been grabbed and groped too many times to count, she had been called a number of filthy and perverted names, and she had endured a ridiculous amount of leering and sexual innuendo.

The tavern had been teeming and she'd been rushed off her feet, no longer able to remember how much rum she had served, only that the orders kept on coming. At first, she had panicked. The bar seemed to be a madhouse, filled to bursting with unruly, crude pirates, the overwhelming stink of sweat, unwashed man, piss and alcohol threatening to make her gag as she tried to find some sort of order or procedure amongst the chaos, only to find there wasn't any. When she finally stopped looking, it began to come together for her and she was darting around the tables, tray in hand, like she'd been doing it all her life.

She had never felt more alive, and her skin was flushed pink, damp with sweat. Nassau was tropical at the best of times, but as the sun reached its apex in the sky, the island became a sultry, hot place. And with so many bodies crammed inside the tavern—all trying to avoid the harsh midday sun—it was also awfully humid, making the stink in the air worse until her mouth tasted like she had personally licked the sweat and grime from each and every single one of the grubby, filthy pirates.

"Fuck it's hot in here," she announced jovially to the barkeep, Mr. Scott, as though her feet and back did not ache, and she took a moment to rearrange the pins in her hair so that the tendrils of her messy, wavy chestnut hair were no longer sticking to her neck and face.

He shrugged noncommittally, not really even looking at her. Instead his gaze was firmly on the patrons of the bar in front of him, alert and ready to stop any serious altercations should they arise. The heat made people irritable, quicker to give rise to their temper, and pirates seemed to be particularly volatile. Mr. Scott's voice, tinged with an accent and a somber kind of intelligence, replied, "It is always hot in Nassau."

She nodded in full agreement despite the fact that he wasn't looking at her, and turned back to continue with her job. She didn't want him to think she was slacking—she needed this job. She needed the money, now that she was on her own.

Over the next few hours, she quickly discovered that the pirates visiting the tavern held one of three intentions, which could be exacerbated when plied with rum. The first group, and her personal favourite, were the ones just looking for a good time. They were the flirty ones with the winks and leers who filled the tavern with their voices, shouting and laughing and telling grand stories of their fearlessness in battle—stories that only got grander and more exciting with the aid of all the rum they consumed. They were the ones who wanted to drink and fuck and drink some more, transforming the room so that it held a lively spirit.

The second, and Mary-Jane didn't know what to make of these pirates, were the ones who wanted a quiet drink by themselves. They sat alone in dark corners, nursing their drinks and staring blankly at the wooden tables in front of them, eyes filled with some emotion and some memory that seemed to be haunting them. They were equally likely to snap at her or not even notice her standing there.

The third, the group she disliked, were the ones looking for a fight. They were the ones quick to anger, quick to retaliate for any slights—imagined or real—and quick to throw a punch and break something. They were the mean ones, with nasty grins, who just wanted to _hurt_ someone. Luckily, the ones looking for a fight ignored Mary-Jane, assuming she wouldn't be much of an opponent given her gender and her petite frame.

Of course, there were those who fell into multiple categories (usually the first and third) for human nature could not be so easily and cleanly divided into three simple subgroups, but for the most part it was clear where each person fell.

And with those categories in her head and her keen observation skills at the ready, she bustled around the tavern, and seemed to do a decent job, if the slightly impressed eyebrow raise from Mr. Scott as she went back and forth from the bar was anything to go by. Mr. Scott had seen many barmaids come and go in the last week alone—most on the same day, many in tears—and as soon as he was introduced to Mary-Jane, with her large, wide eyes, inviting, full-lipped smile and her small frame, he honestly didn't think she'd last the hour.

She looked too naïve (but then, he supposed, all the girls with clean faces and a smile seemed too naïve for Nassau). And if Mr. Scott hadn't heard her inquire after the job herself, he would've thought that she'd unknowingly and unwittingly stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time to be offered the job and was too surprised and polite to say otherwise.

But she was stubborn. Her smile never dropped and laughter was rarely absent, and she wove through the room like she was among friends, far too comfortable. She served rum and took away empty mugs, slapped away prying hands and threw out wicked, disarming grins as she let the pirates have their fun sprouting lewd suggestions before she let them know—in no uncertain terms—that she had no intentions of letting any of them fuck her.

Her vocabulary was almost as colourful as theirs, but it lacked the colloquial slurring and unrefined manners the pirates had, and so Mr. Scott thought she must have spent many years with someone who, all too familiar with swearing and cursing, had tried to teach her how to speak like a proper lady. And those crude words interjected between the proper English spilling from her sweet mouth, as she explained how she was not a whore at the brothel, was little help in dissuading their attentions.

All the pirates heard was that they wouldn't have to pay her for any such favours.

But she continued with her job, the hours growing later and the tavern filled with more men. Games of dice and cards were set up around the room at various tables, and half-naked women made their way inside, draping themselves across the men as they worked for their coin.

The only real incident occurred as the sun was setting and the candles and lanterns were being lit and she was thinking about her bed as she made her way around the room, her arms beginning to feel heavy after holding up the tray for so many hours. She was grabbed at her waist by large, meaty hands and pulled down onto a lap, and she had let out a surprised yelp before she even realized what was happening. Her tray had dropped from her hands, and the rum had spilt all over the ground, the mugs rolling across the floor, as those too-hot hands held her tight, pawing at her body and pulling at her skirts to move underneath and rub at her thighs.

Her shock prevented her from reacting immediately, eyes widening and a panicky feeling surged in her chest and lodged in her throat. She had dodged stray hands all night, but none had pulled her close and forcefully, desperately, lifted her skirts to touch her. Her mind went curiously blank. She didn't know why she had not expected it, why she was not prepared, and none of the other men seemed the kind to step in for her defense either.

But then she snapped out of her shock and took the opportunity to make it clear that she was not weakly submissive or easily intimidated. Her father hadn't raised a simpering fool of a girl, and if she couldn't handle herself in a tavern then she may as well just go home and give up on any fanciful ideas of becoming a pirate, because that would be all they would ever be—a fancy.

The hand that wasn't twisted behind her back awkwardly from the way she'd landed reached into the length of her skirts, the material voluminous enough for unnoticeable pockets and pulled out the small but sharp blade stashed there, bringing it up to press against the pirate's neck. He froze and so did the few men close enough to see what was happening, pausing in their conversations and arguments and games to turn and stare at her, waiting to see what she would do.

The silence from the men alerted the other men around them that something was going on and eventually they all had turned to look at her.

She gave the pirate a brilliant grin, her eyes widening in emphasis like she was listening to a really exciting story he was telling, rather than threatening to slice into his flesh and let him bleed out over the wooden table. Her lofty, lighthearted voice seemed to be largely in conflict with the seriousness of her threat. "You're going to remove your hand from between my legs and let go of me, or I'm going to slit your fucking throat."

Her eyes dared him. His fingers on the soft skin of her thigh stilled.

He did what she said, but only after she'd pressed the blade into his neck harder, to show that she was absolutely fucking serious, a red line of blood welling up and dribbling down his skin. She stood up off his lap, brushed off her skirt and grinned at him even wider if it was possible.

"Now, you're going to cover the cost of the rum you made me spill," she told him, and when he opened his mouth to undoubtedly tell her to go fuck herself, she held up a hand to silence him and turned away to look at the rest of the men still watching on. The room was oddly quiet compared to just moments before when she could hardly hear herself think, and she supposed that the previous barmaids hadn't pulled a knife on one of them before. "As for the rest of you. The next pirate to pull me into their lap without my permission is going to find that he's missing a fucking finger."

Silence followed her announcement.

And then they laughed. Full-bellied and in guffaws that told her she had absolutely no power over them, but that they would humour her for a little while anyway, the woman who thought she was tough enough to threaten pirates. And it was the first time she really actually realized that she was not safe there, amongst fellow pirates she had grown up hearing stories about.

As the daughter of a pirate—a pirate doctor, to be exact, who had imparted all of his medical knowledge onto her—she had been privy to many such stories. They were among the best memories she had; sitting beside a fire as he told her grand tales of his travels. Somehow, he always made them out to be nobler than what she'd encountered so far; he had never made her feel like she wouldn't be safe around them—his tales neglected the parts where the men pounced on the whores from the brothel and drank far too much and reeked to the heavens. And for a moment, she felt somewhat betrayed by his dishonesty as she watched the pirates laugh at her—she felt tricked.

But then the feeling disappeared back from where it came and she no longer cared, because it didn't change what she wanted in the grand scheme of things, and being there now meant she was one step closer to it.

They were laughing still though, and a flush worked its way up her neck that had little to do with the heat, and she glanced over at Mr. Scott as he stood behind the bar, his hands paused and stilled half way through polishing a mug as he watched her impassively to see what she would do next. Beside him, Eleanor Guthrie, the owner of the bar—who, to Mary-Jane's surprise when she'd arrived at the bar earlier that day asking after a job, was equally as young and _female_ as herself—stood watching too. As soon as she'd walked into Eleanor Guthrie's office, she'd known the blonde woman was not to be trifled with, especially if she could successfully run a profitable business with the kind of suppliers and clientele she had. The other woman had eyed Mary-Jane's heart-shaped face and altogether physically unintimidating stature and been reluctant to hire her, but Mary-Jane was nothing if not persistent and stubborn.

Mary-Jane thought that she must've come downstairs to see just how long her newest barmaid had lasted, and she stood there with her hands on her hips, hair pinned up in a firm bun, and an intent frown furrowing her brow. Mary-Jane didn't want to disappoint her and she didn't want her to think she'd been right in the assumption that Mary-Jane could not handle working in a place like this.

She bent to pick up her tray and the broken mugs as the pirate that grabbed her leant back in his chair to balance on two of the four wooden legs so he could grin tauntingly at her. So as she straightened up and dusted off her skirts again—not only was Nassau sweltering, it was also dirty—she gave his chair a push so that he toppled over onto the floor, limbs sprawling and head thudding painfully against the hard ground. Others around him laughed, and judging from the sound of his head colliding with the ground, he would have a pounding headache soon enough.

She grinned to herself as she walked away and binned the broken mugs, feeling marginally better. She grinned at Eleanor as she dusted the tray off, shaking her head though it was clear from Mary-Jane's expression she was neither angry nor exasperated, only mildly awed (and Eleanor wondered what it would take for her to get worked up in a rage, if that hadn't), "Fucking _pirates_."

She continued on with her job, not looking for a response, but her mind began to wander, shifting into the past and what had brought her to the present moment, serving alcohol in a tavern to a bunch of rowdy, smelly pirates.

Mary-Jane's mother had been a naval officer's daughter—a woman of good breeding, proper manners and family name, who let herself be wooed by the scruffy, charming pirate doctor when her Royal Majesty's ship had docked at New Providence Island. Her family had been travelling from England to the America's as guests upon the ship, partly due to her father's good name and partly due to his exceptional naval success, when they had run into a terrible storm that caused extensive damage to the ship. While repairs were being made, Mary-Jane's mother had wandered into Nassau and met Mary-Jane's father.

Simply put, they fell in love—or, well, Mary-Jane doubted it was _love_ , really, that they held for each other, because her mother ended up pregnant with little Mary-Jane.

When her family had found out about the pregnancy, there had been trouble and threats of disownment. But they stayed on the island rather than get back on the ship once repairs were made, claiming attachment to the island and intentions of creating a home there. Then she'd had the baby and soon after, when another ship arrived on the request of her naval officer father, they had left in the dead of the night and continued to the America's where the shame of her being an unwed mother wouldn't follow her and they could put the whole sordid affair behind them.

And so, little Mary-Jane had been left to be raised by a scoundrel of a man with a foul mouth and no experience dealing with children, let alone little girls. And she'd grown up without a mother, with sparse and rarely reinforced lessons on how a proper lady should speak and behave herself, and with a stubborn, impulsive streak she got from her father. For the first few years of her life, he left the pirate life behind and they settled into a small house outside of Nassau where he became a doctor for their small village.

But he was a man born to be at sea, and every now and then, when the pull became too strong to ignore and when she was old enough that he didn't feel guilty about leaving her by herself, he returned to his mistress and would be gone for months at a time. Mary-Jane would be left in the care of the older women in their town, whose own children had already grown up and who had a soft spot for the kind doctor left to raise a daughter on his own.

Those women would always take the opportunity to wrestle her into a dress and impart proper manners on her in an attempt to make her into a good Christian girl, especially when it became clear her father had little interest in enforcing such behaviour from her. Much to their horror, he let Mary-Jane run around with the boys (because the girls didn't) in shirts and breeches with her hair a mess, and so they tried their hardest to mold her into what they thought she ought to be. But it was too late as she developed a penchant for cursing, and so she would spend the whole time praying for her father's quick return. It was the only time she prayed.

When he did return, he would bring her back books though—books on anatomy and biology and medicine, and fantastic tales of the world that reminded her that there was life outside of New Providence Island—and sometimes trinkets, but mostly he brought back _stories_. And so her head would be constantly filled with tales of adventures about the high seas, and more than anything else she began to long for it herself, too.

She'd told him so, once. Only _once_.

She had been sixteen—her hair had grown long out of the crude, shaggy bob she kept it in (all the better to get into fights with, when her opponents couldn't use the length against her by pulling), her breasts had formed so they stuck out obviously through her shirt and her hips had rounded out into a nice, feminine curve until she looked, very much, like a woman.

And he had looked at her very seriously—as serious as she had ever seen him—and his eyes had burned fervently as he said, with an urgency she didn't understand, "promise me, Mary-Jane, that you will never become a pirate. Promise me that you will never go into Nassau without me. _Promise me_."

"But father," she frowned, thoroughly confused and at a loss as to how to even respond. She had not been expecting that from him, and she scrambled for some way to formulate words. She bit her bottom lip, shaking her head. "I don't understand. I thought… why can't I be a pirate—like you?"

And his eyes got all cloudy, like he was remembering tragic and awful things, and for the first time since Mary-Jane could remember, his eyes matched with the lines on his face and the greying of his hair. His appearance gave the impression of _age_ , but his eyes had always held a younger sparkle, an intelligent, joyful light that would brighten when he looked at her, when she reminded him so strongly of himself. But that light was gone in that moment, and his voice became sharp. "It's not a game, Mary-Jane. It's dangerous and it is _not_ for girls, do you hear me? It is not for _you_."

"But—,"

Anger heated his tone as he scolded her. "For once in your life child, do as I say and act like a _lady_."

She had never hated being a girl before then—she had never had a reason to; her father didn't restrict how she behaved, didn't impose societal expectations on her based on gender. He didn't stop her from playing games with the other boys, didn't stop her swearing (unless it became too profane), and he never, ever, forbade her from doing something because she was _female_. As long as she was not dying and had enough food in her belly, he considered himself a successful father, and that was really the extent of it; he was more than happy to just sit back and watch her be (mostly because honestly, he had _no clue_ what he was doing).

But she shut her mouth. He very rarely admonished her—not even when she came home with bruises and a grin and stories of how she got into scrapes with the other boys, nor when she cursed and swore, or when she ran in the rain and dragged mud back in the house—so when he did, she knew he was serious.

But she could not stop the dreams of being aboard a ship, not the longing in her chest that pulled her to that life her father had, the life she'd grown up hearing countless stories about. And so, four months after her father had died of tuberculosis, she had found herself wandering into Nassau, an internal war waging as she wrestled with the promise she'd made her father and the desperate need that filled her chest and pushed her forward on a surge.

"Mary-Jane," Mr. Scott called her over as he was polishing another mug, and his voice brought her more solidly back to the present. It was the early hours of the morning, and most of the men in the bar had either disappeared to the brothel or passed out into a drunken stupor where they sat. "You're done for the night."

She took it as a promising sign that he'd specified _for the night_ , rather than just leaving it at _you're done_. "Well? How'd I do?"

At her hopeful expression he nodded, his expression still serious and his big lips still held in a line. "Miss Guthrie is happy for you to remain on as a barmaid."

She grinned brilliantly, so wide that Mr. Scott wondered how her face didn't split. "Then I shall be seeing you more often, Mr. Scott." She rubbed at her weary eyes, feeling like she could sleep for days. She untied her apron from around her waist and placed it and the tray on the bar in front of him. "Perhaps we should be friends."

He didn't reply, and she glanced up at him, grinning because she hadn't been expecting one. Her attention was caught, again, by the three vertical indents on each of his cheeks. Every time she looked at him, she felt her eyes stray to the marks that marred his smooth brown skin. They looked like someone had dragged their nails down his face, and they must have been deep cuts once.

Mary-Jane found herself intensely curious about him and the scars—he had spoken fewer than a couple sentences to her since she'd started work, and he didn't seem to be much of a talker. Her eyes flicked up to meet his and found he had been watching her silently—she had no doubt he knew the direction of her thoughts (she was sure his eyes missed nothing), and so he would likely not be indulging her in a story about his past on this particular night.

Ordinarily, she would just ask. She had a habit of asking whatever was on her mind, regardless of whether she should or whether it was appropriate. Her father had tried to teach her from a young age—when her string of questions seemed to be never-ending—mostly so that she wouldn't get herself into trouble one day because she didn't think before she spoke (she seemed to attract more trouble than did all the other children in their small town put together).

But her father had it wrong—most of the time, anyway—as it wasn't that she _didn't_ think before she spoke. On the contrary, she thought a great deal and had a good amount of common sense (and intuition, as most women did), but the thing was, she was also absurdly _curious_. Far more so than what would allow her to live a trouble-free existence in the small town, content with her few books and gardening and cooking and attending church. So even though she knew—again, _most of the time_ —when a particular question under particular circumstances would be considered inappropriate, she found her curiosity to be stronger than her father's voice in her head telling her to shut her mouth, and she would ask anyway.

So, with great restraint and a large amount of effort on her part, she did not broach the topic she shouldn't (for she knew that Mr. Scott knew that she wanted to know, and yet he hadn't told her). Instead, she rolled her neck to loosen it and pretended she was not thinking about it, asking, "so, how long have you worked here for?"

His answer hovered there in his lined, cautious eyes, and in the set of his lips, that it had been a long time. He didn't reply to her question, and instead asked his own. "Don't you want to go to sleep?"

Her lips twitched as she watched him study the dark purple circles under her eyes, the way she shifted from foot to foot and how she slumped against the countertop. "I certainly do, Mr. Scott."

"Keep that knife close." He instructed cautiously, silently considering whether Eleanor Guthrie really did her any favours by hiring her—though, he supposed, it was not for Mary-Jane that Eleanor hired her; they simply needed a new barmaid. But the girl was spirited and lively and passionate, and far too expressive for her own good, and Mr. Scott was sure nothing good would happen to her in a place like this. Not when her smile only highlighted the playfulness of her nature, the wide innocence of her eyes and the naiveté of her face.

Her smile did not slip and Mr. Scott wondered whether she fully understood _why_ she needed to keep her knife close, why she was not safe. But then she nodded and he thought perhaps she knew more than what the innocence of her face would suggest. "I certainly will, Mr. Scott. Goodnight."

She stepped outside into the streets of Nassau, relishing in the cooler air of the early morning. She started the long walk home, her feet and back aching, but she couldn't seem to remove the wide smile stretching her full red lips.


End file.
